Hibernian Blood (A Vampire Urban Fantasy) (Hibernian Hollows Book 1)

by Dean F. Wilson

  40 – THE SILENT SISTER

  Lorcan flew back outside to join the mounting battle, roaming through the black fields like a battering ram, knocking down wave after wave of vampires from the O'Connor clan, the O'Neill family, or the Favoured Fangs, the latter of which arrived in bulk, pouring into the castle to swing their bats and clubs at everything in sight.

  Inside, James followed suit, forging a path through the O'Neill army, staking vampire after vampire, coating the floors in a thick layer of dust. Some of the newer and weaker creatures of the night barely even got in reach of him before they exploded from the painful push of the cross.

  Yet, though James whittled down their numbers with ease, there was another, stronger vampire making her slow pursuit. No one was entirely sure of her real name, or if she was even related to Dearg. They called her the Silent Sister, for she never spoke, and barely made any sounds at all. Some said that she had a dispute with her elder sister, and Dearg tore her tongue out as a lesson. Yet, for all this, the Silent Sister maintained a certain unbreakable loyalty, the kind of loyalty that meant breaking others.

  The way ahead was clear, but James was wary. He tip-toed down the corridor, cross raised high, ready to strike at a moment's notice. He knew too well, however, that he'd get no notice at all. His eyes searched out every shifting shadow, every flicker of candlelight. His nose hunted the scent of the dead, though he knew they could mask that too. Most of all he relied on his gut, on his instincts, and that told him to be careful, that danger wasn't just around the corner—it was all around him.

  He halted suddenly, feeling a presence, though it seemed distant. He turned slowly, seeing nothing down the corridor. He paused for a moment, waiting for the strike, but nothing came. Then he returned to the path ahead, taking a few paces forward before stopping and turning again. Yet nothing happened then either.

  Then, as he turned back, keeping his eyes on the door ahead, something emerged from around the corner far behind him: the Silent Sister. She stood for a moment, arms drooping, head lolling to one side, as if she had been hanged, and was still swinging. Then she opened her mouth, as if to scream, but no sound came. Instead, she started to fade away, changing into a gaseous form, so thin and faint that it could barely be seen up close, never mind far away.

  James swung around, holding the cross before him. But he saw nothing, even though the Silent Sister was there, drifting slowly towards him. The walls saw. The floor saw. The ceiling saw. Yet just as the Silent Sister was dumb, James was blind.

  James stared down the corridor, feeling something, but seeing nothing but the silent walls, the unspeaking curtains, the untouched carpets. For the Silent Sister did not walk towards him. She floated through the air unseen. He looked right through her, but she saw him.

  He gave a brief sigh and shook his head. Then he turned back to his original path and took a step forward. It almost felt like something took a step behind him, but that couldn't be. He advanced again, and that same feeling came upon him.

  Then with a swiftness like a sudden gale, the gaseous form came around him and became solid in an instant. And there she was, the Silent Sister, pressed against his back, her left arm around his torso, her right hand, clutching a long knife, thrust towards his neck.

  His breath was caught, and the shock of it almost made him drop the cross. She held him close, so tight that he could not seem to get the air back into his lungs. The blade pressed deep, nicking his skin, and she might have licked the blood if it weren't poison to her. Instead, she leant in close to him, opening her tongueless mouth right next to his left ear. Maybe she roared. Maybe she screamed. And maybe in his soul he heard her.

  Though the press of the blade against his neck made him try to clutch it, made him focus on the squeezing of his throat, he fought his instincts and turned his attention to the cross. Not only did this give him strength; it gave him wisdom. He put his hand down, pressing the ancient talisman against the Silent Sister's leg, where it sizzled.

  She turned suddenly to gas again, freeing him from the bladed noose. He swung around to find her, but she appeared solid again behind him, still brandishing the knife. He felt her appear, and so he dived forward just in time as she stabbed the air where he had been. He rolled on the floor, turning on the spot and holding out the cross in front of him. But she was invisible again.

  There was no winning this fight so long as she continued to go in and out of visible form, shifting around him, sending him spinning. He thrust the cross out randomly, but it struck nothing, and she dodged it and him with ease. He found it much more difficult to evade her attacks, for she swung at him as she was materialising, cutting him on the arm, then the back, then the chest. She didn't have to suck his blood to bleed him dry.

  So he looked to the cross again for wisdom, and it told him to stop, so he stopped. This must have put the Silent Sister on guard, for she halted her attacks too, wary. Then he closed his eyes, immersing himself in darkness. It almost seemed like suicide, like he was giving up, but once he let go of his fear of the situation, he started to see. In the blackness of his closed eyelids, he saw the flickers of something ahead. It was her. She couldn't hide from him now.

  Suddenly she darted towards him, but he held the cross towards her, and she recoiled. Then she swept around him, but he turned with her, blocking her next attack, and fending off another. She couldn't sigh or shout, or make any audible expression of her frustration, but he felt it from her.

  Then, as she disappeared once more and was in the process of re-emerging behind him, he turned with a speed to match her own and stabbed the now-pointed end of the cross into the air. Her body formed around it. Her heart materialised in the path of the golden stake. She opened her mouth to gasp, but nothing came. Then she made her final shifting form as she tumbled to the ground in a pile of dust.

  41 – MIRROR, MIRROR

  Dearg pursued Rua through the castle, using magic to chase her scent. She followed her up to the highest level, and then back down again on the far side of the building, through the dimmest hallways, into the cobweb-laced chambers.

  She found Caoimh along the path, trying to fend her off with a large spear. She laughed at his attempt, even though she admired his dedication to his family. At least he'd die an honourable death.

  He thrust at her, but she simply stepped out of the way and grabbed the metal shaft. “Hold on tight,” she said, before a blast of electricity came from her hand, straight through the spear, into Caoimh. He smouldered, unable even to scream, before collapsing into a pile of ash upon the floor.

  She stepped forward, planking a boot into his remains, leaving her print. She continued on her hunt for Rua, letting the dust trail along behind her.

  The scent of the vampire queen seemed to end in the old gala hall, a huge, long room with a high ceiling, from which hung many giant chandeliers. It was lavish once, but now it was dark, and the furniture was covered with sheets, dust and cobwebs. The lighting was dim, like much of the hotel, but in this room it was multiplied in the reflections cast by a colossal mirror which ran from one end of the room to the other.

  Dearg stalked her way through the furniture placed like obstacles. When she emerged from behind an old cupboard, she cast an illusory shadow in the mirror. At times, she used her magic to help her blend in with humans, to go undetected, to wreak havoc from inside. Now, she used it to strengthen her. The shadow she cast was no mere reflection. It was magnified. As she walked, wisps of shadow swept behind her in the mirror, and the ground seemed to quake in the glass.

  She continued on through the slithering path, and in the mirror other things followed. She called them her pets, but some of them were slaves. They were dark things, shadows and spectres. In the real world, they could not be seen. In this mirror, they showed some form.

  Finally, she emerged into an open stretch of the hall, and stood face to face with Rua, just feet apart. She hunched over, arms curved, legs bent, rocking back and forth, and side to side. Rua stood perfec
tly straight and still, thin and shapely, the elbow of her right arm resting on the wrist of her left, as if she were indeed at a ballroom, holding a glass of wine, or blood, in her hand. She cast no reflection in the mirror.

  “Mirrors, huh?” Dearg asked.

  Rua gave a flicker of a smile, like the spark that lights a fuse.

  “You always did like a spectacle,” Dearg continued. “Don't think that wasn't another reason why they liked you.”

  “Why they like me,” Rua corrected.

  “I'm speaking past tense. Getting used to it. You know, for the future.”

  “Then you better speak all you need to say now. For the future.”

  Dearg charged at Rua, shouting out her war-cry. Her advance was so swift and frightening, and her look so manic, and her shout so fierce, that most would have baulked before her, and fled. But Rua stood like stone, and when the tide of Dearg came upon her, she merely flicked her wrist and arm ever so slightly, and swatted Dearg away like a fly. Dearg flew across the room, her tangled shadowy form in the mirror showing all the agony that she felt, and crashed into one of the covered bookcases, sending a tumble of dusty tomes down upon her.

  Yet Dearg's power was not in strength alone. Even from the rubble of wood and page, she sent forth the horde of invisible creatures she had summoned. Yet Rua could see them in the mirror, for she chose this room to fight in for this purpose. As the first shadowy figure came upon her in the glass, she knocked it aside. And then another. Then the black horse charged, and she moved like lightning out of its path, using the knife-like nails of her first two fingers to slice into its torso as it passed. In the mirror, it bucked and stumbled, and seemed to cry out. In the hall, nothing could be seen, and nothing heard.

  “Magic,” Rua said with scorn.

  Dearg clambered up, brushing her hair aside with the back of her hand.

  “You always hated it, didn't you?” Dearg challenged her.

  “I always hated you.”

  “Well, we've been playing happy families long enough.”

  “Too long, it seems.”

  “We can end it here.”

  “Put your wand aside and I'll end it now.”

  Dearg rose, looking as haggard as ever. “I don't need a wand!” she cried, pressing both hands forward, from which shot a bolt of lightning. Rua ducked, and the bolt struck the door behind her, flinging it open. Dearg fired another, and this one bounced off the frame of the door, then off a bookcase, then to a grand piano, before striking the mirror. The glass cracked, and the reflections in it weakened. Rua stepped back towards the throne room behind her.

  “You don't deserve that crown,” Dearg barked, sending forth a mighty gale, which knocked the gem-encrusted tiara from Rua's head. It struck the ground with a clang, circling in place for a moment until it stood still.

  “You don't deserve that life,” Rua replied.

  Dearg cast the winds again, forcing Rua back. It took all of the vampire queen's strength to stop from toppling over. Her scarlet dress flapped like a flag.

  Once more the gale came, pushing Rua further into the throne room. Dearg advanced, picking up the crown as she passed, placing it on her own head. Yet no matter its glimmer, it did not make her look like a queen.

  “The Kavanagh name ends with you,” Dearg taunted.

  The winds continued to propel Rua back, until she fell backwards at the foot of her own throne. To die there would have been the cruellest of fates, but by now she knew well that the fates were cruel.

  Dearg raised her hands for a final assault. “Any last words?”

  Rua seemed broken. The end was near. But not for her. “Yes,” she said, grasping the Sceptre of the Serpent that stood resting by the arm of her throne. She pointed it towards Dearg and cried, “Victoria Aut Mors! Vivat Regina!”

  The stone serpent that was wrapped around the sceptre suddenly came to life, darting forth towards Dearg, growing in size as it moved with a haste unknown to any of its mortal kin. Dearg tried to fire upon it, but it slithered out of the way, until finally it reached her, wrapping around her legs, and then her torso, pinning her arms down to her side so that she could make no more effort to defend herself.

  Rua sauntered over, still clutching the sceptre that was now more than just a symbol of her royalty. Dearg's eyes widened as the serpent continued to squeeze. Rua drew up close to Dearg, and said, “Any final words?” Dearg opened her mouth to speak, but the serpent made its final crush, and she turned to a hail of ash. As the dust fell, Rua caught the tumbling crown. “Didn't think so.”

  42 – BATS AND NAILS

  The battle continued outside, vampire against vampire, but even as their numbers lessened, a new force came suddenly to join the fray: the Order of Nails. A convoy of wagons rolled in, circling the horde of the night.

  The vehicles creaked into place, twenty-four in number—not because there were enough Strigoi Stalkers to fill that many, but because twenty-four was to them a holy number. Two of the wagons just housed the Torture Cubes. Another one was empty, waiting to house some more.

  Lorcan had spent much of the battle diving onto unsuspecting foes, before soaring again in a flutter of black wings. He stood now on a balcony, watching as the Stalkers stabbed at every vampire clan that fought tooth and nail in the fields. The clans suddenly united against this new foe, dragging the humans to the ground, tearing off their holy armour, and tearing off their flesh as well.

  Lorcan surveyed the fight, seeming unmoved by it. And then Manus drew into view, and there was a silent challenge in his stare.

  Lorcan crawled out, and down the side of the building, the fabric of his gown flailing about him. The wind kept the silk billowing even as he stood still now, even as the two of them stood face-to-face in this self-made arena amidst the howling and hammering of the battle all around.

  Manus swung his nail-encrusted flail, rotating it in the air, creating a whoosh of wind.

  “Your time has come,” he said.

  “Good,” Lorcan replied, hunching his shoulders. “I've had too much of it. But you, you won't have much more of it now either.”

  He darted forward, and Manus swung. They clashed, snarling and sneering. The flail struck flesh, but Lorcan's fingernails and fangs struck the metal of the Stalker's armour. It was strong, reinforced more by the holy symbols than by the iron, but even then it started to buckle under Lorcan's unrelenting assault.

  The vampire pushed Manus back, forcing him to retreat. Again he came at him, thrashing, barely giving him a second to raise or swing the flail again. The holy symbols were no deterrent. Instead, they simply seemed to enrage Lorcan even more, making him faster, giving him strength.

  Manus fell to the ground, and Lorcan leapt towards him, but just as he did, a row of Stalkers unleashed a hail of nails from their crossbows in his direction. Lorcan twisted into a cloud of bats, spreading out in all directions to avoid the barrage, before appearing again in solid form further away on the battlefield.

  “Fight me like a man!” Lorcan shouted over.

  Manus rose to his feet. “I can't say the same to you, demon!”

  Lorcan stepped forward. A Stalker raced towards him, but he whacked the man away. And then another, who faced a similar fate. A third was much more unlucky, for Lorcan circled around him with a speed that defied sight, tearing the helmet from him, and almost his head, before sinking his teeth in deep. He didn't flick that one away. He let him slump to the ground.

  Then, just as he approached Manus, three spotlights turned on from some of the wagons, shining a dazzling light at Lorcan, almost as bright and burning as the sun. He recoiled, shielding his eyes. There was a sizzle of smoke around him, and he bared his teeth, clenching them as the light seared his blanched flesh.

  Manus swung his flail again, and this time it struck home more forcefully. Just as the light weakened the vampire, it strengthened the vampire-killer. Lorcan stumbled from the strike, getting back up just in time for the second swing, which knocked him down aga
in.

  Then more Stalkers came, rushing in to stab, or to lash his wrists with cuffs and chains. He cast some away, and roared at others. Then, when he rose, they yanked the chains and pulled him to the ground. Even there he fought them, raising his shackled arms, forcing them to dig their feet into the earth, and pulling them towards him, until there were none left to hold the chains. He laughed, then stopped, hunched over, to cast an evil glare at Manus.

  “This is the end for you,” Manus shouted.

  “Don't make promises,” Lorcan replied.

  “It's an oath.”

  Lorcan smiled. “Then keep it.”

  Another ring of Stalkers came in, stopping any means of escape for Lorcan. He rose his hands, not in surrender, but to use his telekinetic ability to lift the ends of the chains into the air. Then he spun around, and the upraised chains struck the Stalkers standing nearby. He was like a hurricane.

  He stopped, and the chains fell to the ground, though they still cuffed his wrists. He raised one arm now, letting the chain clang.

  “You think this can hold me?”

  With a flicker of darkness, he changed into his bat form, and the cuffs fell too. Just as quickly, he spun with a flail of his gown into his “human” form again.

  “No,” Manus said. “I never thought that would hold you. But I have something that will.”

  Lorcan knew about the Torture Cubes. He had been warned about them, and in the past he had led a raid against one of the Order of Nails' secret strongholds to free some of his fellow vampires from those awful prisons.

  The Cube-holder came out behind Manus, holding up the taunting box. Lorcan felt a sudden attraction to it, but he knew that was what sucked the demon into its confines. He resisted, turning his attention back to Manus.

  “There is no worse prison than this eternal life,” he said.